Coal Dust: A Chiaroscuro Study
by Official Rambler
Summary: The theft of an abandoned bottle of wine from a Ghost she thought was dead lands a little prop girl in far more trouble than she'd ever thought possible. Leroux-Phantom. Expect later EOW, but not for a while.


A shadow made of dust and machine oil, Dusty weaved her way through most of the Opera Populaire unchallenged. She was the apprentice of Garcon, the propmaster, and often dashed up and down and through the maze of the backstage and the catwalks, checking positioning, making sure props and machinery was in working condition. She was a bit of a tinker, and could jury-rig anything, coming back to fix it permanently when she got a chance. If she was in charge of a prop or a piece of scenery, it could be counted on to always work, flawlessly. Her position was not very glamorous, by most standards, but it suited her.

She suited it, as well. A tiny girl, barely shot of five feet tall, she was slim enough to slip through gaps in equipment quickly and easily. Her hair was a dull, light brown, the color of the floorboards and the dust on the catwalks, cut short to keep it from getting caught in anything, eyes a hazel green, and her dresses came in varying shades of gray. Because she needed to take up as little space as possible backstage, she never wore petticoats.

Dusty only knew the Opera Ghost in passing, but it was enough to make her something of a celebrity among the workers and ballet rats. Naturally, she had encountered him in the rafters, occasionally, seen the swoop of his cloak in the shadows of the corridors. She had spoken to him, but never received an answer.

Of course, she told her closest friends about every encounter, but only the right sort of questions would cause her to tell the ballet rats any sort of story about him.

"What does he look like?" was the most common question, often giggled by the older girls, who had heard wild rumors about Christine, and used their imaginations far too much to embellish the story.

"Very tall," Dusty would reply, and everyone would laugh, because to Dusty, most people were very tall. "And very fashionable. I envy his cape."

Truth be told, she had never seen his face, only glimpsed a flash of white beneath his hat, such that the complexion must surely be made of marble, or perhaps, bone.

"How can you not be afraid of him? You are in the catwalks so often, all it would take is a push," one of the girls would inevitably squeak.

"I respect him and am always polite," Dusty would say, crossing her arms and lifting her narrow chin. "If I were rude, I would have been dangled from the rafters like Joseph Buquet long ago."

It was true. When she encountered the Ghost in the catwalks, no matter how rushed she was, she would always curtsey, and if silence was not imperative, she would say hello, Monsieur Ghost.

But even though the girls continued to ask her about the Opera Ghost, and Madame Giry continued to glare at her when she would, finally, answer, she had not seen him since the incident with the chandelier, and the fire. It had been nearly a year, since that catastrophe, and even though Dusty had been closely involved in repairs and preparations for reopening since then, she had not seen hide nor hair of the elusive O.G.

* * *

"More mending for my favorite costumer," chirped Dusty, shuffling through the door with an armload of clothes. Eulalia winced, and nudged the basket forward with her foot.

"Just because all they let me do is hem and mend doesn't mean you can take advantage of that," she sniffed, returning the needle to the pincushion to keep Dusty from sitting on it. No matter where Eulalia set the needle, if it wasn't in the pincushion, it would find its way into Dusty's flesh somehow.

"It isn't only my things, Melanie and Thierry added to the pot as well," smiled Dusty, dumping the clothes in the basket and sitting on the floor in front of Eulalia. Eulalia rolled her eyes, shoving her glasses back up her nose.

"That makes me feel much better, really," said Eulalia, sniffing again. Dusty tilted her head to one side, and the frowned.

"You know, it's supper time," she said. "I actually intended to leave the clothes with a note. I didn't expect you to still be here."

"Madame Turner requested—no, she ordered me not to come to supper until I had finished hemming all of the ballgowns," sighed Eulalia, gesturing at the mounds of bright fabric around the room. "It won't take very long, just longer than they'll be serving food."

"Oh, that's just beastly," Dusty exclaimed, standing up. Madame Turner liked Eulalia's work, which was efficient and inventive when necessary, but disliked the girl herself. The Madame often made this known in comments and actions, like this, pertaining to Eulalia's weight. The fifteen-year-old had beautiful dark brown hair and bright blue eyes, but this was often lost in the fact that she was, indeed, overweight. Dusty suspected that it was residual puppy fat, and could eventually be dropped, but Eulalia's sedentary profession coupled with three square meals from the Opera kitchens didn't exactly lend itself towards weight loss. Still, Madame Turner had no right.

"I know," said Eulalia mournfully, repositioning her glasses again. "She is awfully rude."

"Well, I wasn't intending on going to supper tonight," Dusty began, and Eulalia gave a wordless exclamation. "But, I suppose I could go on a rescue mission," she grinned, turning towards the door.

"I love you, Dusty!" Eulalia called after her.

Dusty laughed a little as she trotted off through the corridors, moving much more quickly than it was entirely proper. Long ago Dusty had grown accustomed to dashing everywhere in the opera house, and she could not quite bring herself to stop, even if it were not necessary.

She skidded into the kitchen, and nearly ran into Melanie as she exited.

"What the devil?" Melanie laughed, her reflexes throwing her out of harm's way. "Oh, hello, Dusty."

"Hello, Mel," Dusty smiled at the red-haired dancer. "I'm on a mission."

"Oh, really? What sort? Does it involve rescuing a princess, or perhaps aiding a charming prince?" giggled Melanie. She was only fifteen, and although she was outwardly a woman, she was fond of elaborate games of pretend with Dusty, who shared her love of daydream adventures.

"A princess, this time, one shut in a storeroom without food, until she spins all of the castle's dirty rags into silk cloth," Dusty grinned, with a flourish.

"So it's a mission of mercy, is it?" Melanie insisted eagerly, following Dusty back into the kitchen. "Are you going to come in the dead of night, with exotic fruits and flasks of ambrosia, and share them with her through the bars of her cell?"

"I doubt she'd appreciate it much if I waited until midnight to return with the food, seeing as most of my mission was to _keep_ her from missing supper," mused Dusty, deftly dodging a cook's assistant as he rushed past. "Evening, Maximilian," she waved to the head cook, who puffed at them irritably.

"Why can't either of you eat in the ballet dormitory mess, like normal little chits?" he grumbled, but nonetheless handed Dusty a fresh pastry.

"We're on a rescue mission," said Melanie. "We need something for a light picnic."

"You'll raid me whether or not I give permission, so raid away," he waved at them.

"Thank you!" exclaimed Dusty around a mouthful of pastry.

"But don't take any of my wine again! If you take my wine, I will turn you both into pies, and feed you to the ballet rats!" he admonished, before going back to work.

Dusty and Melanie gathered bread and three different cheeses as well as some meat scraps onto a cloth and folded it up, before dashing off with their loot. They trotted unbecomingly quickly through the halls, apologizing to all they ran into, people and objects alike, laughing as they went.

"Fair maiden, succor is at hand!" Melanie exclaimed, as they burst through the door of the sewing room. Eulalia blinked up at her owlishly, and Adele, seated in a chair beside her, laughed.

"You're a bit late," said Adele, in her cool drawl. The tall, pale blonde secretary had apparently beaten them to the punch, as both she and the seamstress were eating cold roast beef sandwiches. Dusty's face fell, and Melanie folded her arms and huffed.

"Well then! If that's the sort of gratitude we're to get for going to all that trouble, we'll just take our picnic elsewhere," she pouted.

"Oh don't," said Eulalia, blushing. "Please stay here and keep me company. What did you bring, anyway?"

"Bread and cheese," said Dusty meekly. "I was trying to rush."

"Bread and cheese, but no wine?" said Adele, arching an eyebrow. "That's not a meal by anyone's standards."

"Maximilian said he'd turn us into pies if we took any wine!" exclaimed Melanie, stamping her foot. "Stop being so _obnoxious_, Adele, not everybody can be as insufferably, magically perfect as _you_—"

"You want wine, I'll fetch you wine," said Dusty, handing a very uncomfortable-looking Eulalia the package containing their picnic lunch. "And Adele, if you conjure a bottle out of some unfathomable nowhere before I'm back, I shall very seriously consider becoming cross."

With that, Dusty left, closing the door quietly. Adele was their friend, but she had a certain lofty superiority that made her hard to deal with sometimes. She was nineteen, a year less than Dusty, but she always acted as though she were the eldest sister, and the other girls unruly younger siblings. Dusty was many things, but a sibling was not one of them.

Through several hallways Dusty padded, taking twists and turns and finally ending up in a small cubbyhole behind an abandoned set piece, a rather impressive painted camel. One of the panels in the wall here was loose, and behind it was concealed a very old bottle of wine.

This was not the only bottle hidden in a small, secret cranny about the Opera House. Dusty had found several, most wine, but a couple containing nameless, murky potions, and once, quinine. She had thought they were some quirk of an Opera employee, until she had placed a small scrap of cloth in one of the panels to see if anyone would disturb it and take away a bottle. The bottle had indeed disappeared, but _without disturbing the scrap_. Dusty had recognized the trademark. The bottles were the Opera Ghost's property, concealed throughout the Opera. Dusty could never fathom why, but there was never any doubt in her mind as to who the wine belonged to.

But it had been over a year since any bottle had moved. Dusty had always maintained a little hope that perhaps O.G. might still be nearby, but now… no.

So it was with complete security and a little malice that she pried the wine bottle out of its hiding place, along with the glasses stored behind it, and carried it back to her waiting friends.

"—Weren't so snide, then maybe I wouldn't be so defensive, did you think of that?" Melanie was snapping, when Dusty reentered the room. Eulalia was bright red and looked a little ill, and Adele appeared horribly bored, despite the rant Melanie was directing at her.

"I propose we drink to friendship, solidarity, good health, and," here she paused, to look Adele in the eye, "efficiency. Cheers, my friends?"

"That's old," remarked Adele, the arch of her eyebrows clearly indicating that she was impressed. "And here I thought you were just going to go risk piehood. That's no vintage of Maximilian's, or I'm much mistaken. Where did you find it?"

"If I tell you, you will be deprived of a mystery," sniffed Dusty, handing around the glasses and breaking the wax seal on the bottle. "And the day I reveal all my secrets will be the day you grow bored of me."

"Who could ever grow bored of you?" said Eulalia, faintly. Dusty's smile quirked.

"Come on, come on, let's drink already!" said Melanie, impatient even as Adele produced a corkscrew and set to opening the bottle. The cork came free with a satisfying pop, and Melanie cheered as Dusty set to pouring.

"I'd like to remind you that I refuse to condone more than three felonies a day," said Adele mildly, taking a sip. "And since you won't tell me where you found the wine, I'm counting it as today's number one."

"Oh dear," said Dusty, frowning in mock consternation. "Where do you consider your 'day' to start?"

"Midnight," said Adele.

"Dusty, what _have_ you been doing?" Melanie purred, grinning. "Leaving me out of your criminal plots?"

"No," yelped Dusty, a little too quickly. "I'm going to eat my cheese now," she said, making herself busy.

"You're baiting me again," stated Adele, somewhat sourly.

"Can you truly blame her?" asked Eulalia. "After all, you threw cold water on her 'rescue the princess' adventure."

"_Our_ 'rescue the princess' adventure," asserted Melanie.

"It's not my fault if you two are staggeringly inefficient," snorted Adele.

Between the four of them, they emptied the bottle, and it was quite late before any of the girls felt like returning to their rooms. Dusty was the last to go, quietly slipping down the hall in the opposite direction of her friends. She did not sleep in a dormitory room, but preferred her own space, even if that space was a just pallet in a broom closet.

Her footsteps were very loud on the floorboards, and it was quite dark in the hall, as Dusty had forgone a candle. She typically didn't have any problem at all with navigating in the dark, but the gloom seemed especially thick today. With a surge of apprehension that caused a physical chill, she realized that she had just walked past two gas lamps, and that both of them had been completely extinguished.

"Oh, help," she whispered to herself, going still. The shape of a tall man in a cloak and hat peeled itself out of the shadows, to place itself directly in her path. His face was as white as bone, and immobile. Dusty swallowed.

"Hello, Monsieur Ghost," she squeaked.

"You owe me a bottle of wine," he said, and Dusty nearly swallowed her tongue. She had never heard him speak before, and the beauty and power of his voice seemed to fill her head, and turn the aftertaste of the stolen wine to so much ash in her mouth.

"I thought you were dead," she whispered, when she finally was able to speak again. He shook his head and tisked.

"I thought you were brighter than that, Mademoiselle," he said. "Ghosts, by virtue of already being dead, cannot die."

"What to you want from me?" she asked, the apprehension washing over her again, combining with mild intoxication to make her skin cramp and twitch, and fill her head with fuzz.

"Preferably, I would like that bottle of wine back," he said smoothly. "But I will take monetary compensation. The value… I estimate it at about… five hundred francs?"

"I can't pay that!" exclaimed Dusty, pure shock overriding her fear. The Ghost shrugged.

"Then you had best think of some way to raise the money," he said. "I shall return tomorrow to see if you have thought of an arrangement."

With that, the Opera Ghost simply stepped back into the shadows, and disappeared. Dusty ran all the way back to her closet, and crouched on her pallet, shivering, with her blanket pulled over her head. For the first time, she regretted not having an actual bed, if only so that she could hide under it.

"Well," she whispered to herself. "I've done it now."

* * *

_Disclaimer: Is it public domain yet? Sherlock Holmes is public domain, and they were more or less contemporary. I'm writing under the assumption that it's public domain, but just in case, let it be made clear that I don't own anything and am not making money, and suing me would really be trying to get blood from a stone at this point._

_A/N: AFSGDJG I really have no idea what a spookily old bottle of wine costs in Francs… but if that's the only in-period error I make in the whole story, I shall consider myself inordinately successful._

_I've been wanting to write this fanfic for quite some time, and had the girls' characters planned out, I only wanted a premise to start it on. So I printed out a list of a dozen fanfiction tropes and picked one blindfolded and used that. Haha, just kidding, but I did pull the beginning out of a hat, or my ass, so to speak. I hope you won't find my original characters too obnoxious, as I tend to write more original fiction than fanfic, and my specialty remains original characters. _

_Leroux's Phantom is my favorite, but also the hardest to write, so expect a hybrid, as usual. _

_Also; I have ZERO FRENCH. I spent a week in Paris and survived largely by pantomime and smiling a lot. Hence, Dusty's nickname is Dusty, and not whatever that is in French. But assume that the characters are hearing and saying 'Dusty' in French._

_Well, that's all my excuses and whinging for now, but please, R & R to tell me what you think?_


End file.
